


/living up to your name

by Pearly_Pornography



Category: Trainspotting (Movies)
Genre: Emetophilia, First Time Blow Jobs, Heroin, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Overstimulation, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-14 16:27:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19277089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearly_Pornography/pseuds/Pearly_Pornography
Summary: A rent boy is a boy or young man who has sex with men for money. [British, informal]





	1. /oral

It was a cloudy Sunday morning, rain settling on the roof of the bar Renton and his mates frequented. After a few hours of laying like a stupid bum at home, waking up covered in sweat and piss after the night terror of the century, Renton had found his mother's wallet empty. She'd probably begun hiding her money somewhere. He didn't really want to hang out with them at all, well, except Spud, he was always excited to see Spud. But Sick Boy he could do without, and deep in his heart he'd be unaffected if Begbie dropped dead on the spot.

What he needed was money. Money was what he needed. Well, actually, what he really needed was a hit. It felt like he'd try to get off junk every couple of months, and he'd always fail. Icarus flew too close to the sun, and soon enough he was getting cold sweats and shitting his guts out, so at some point he probably decided flying near the sun at all wasn't worth it. And yet, he kept coming back. Sobriety. The real concept of freedom. Renton was anchored by his addiction, incapable of moving a meter in any direction due to the ball-and-chain he bore metaphorically on his ankle. Alcohol wasn't the same. Begbie always asked why he couldn't just get pissed on a Sunday night, but really, that bastard didn't know a damn thing.

"Ah need some money." Renton shot the question at Spud first. Unfortunately, the dumbest of the crew shook his head.

"Dun' goh' none. Spent 'er all on candy."

"Candy?" Renton cocked a brow. Spud really was just a giant child. The two of them were the lone virgins. In Renton's case, he was just never interested in getting any, but Spud was just so immature and stupid that even with the most enthusiastic consent, it'd probably feel like a crime. Gail had been stringing him along since the recent dawn of their relationship, which she claimed to be some kind of trust exercise, but an alleged closet full of leather and rope would suggest otherwise. Of course, Renton could neither confirm or deny the truth of said allegation, as he heard it from Tommy, who heard it from Lizzy, and at that point it's practically a game of 'Telephone'. But one looking at Spud could tell he was virginal, Renton liked to think he himself did not give off the same energy. "Wha'ever. Sick Boy?"

"I do 'ave money. An' yer not gettin' any."

"Oh, bugger off."

Sick Boy grinned. He and Spud were polar opposites, really. Sick Boy was a mature, sexual and manipulative man that Renton wouldn't trust to hold a door open for him. He was off junk, and doing surprisingly well at it, no doubt to rub it in Renton's face in that subtle way of his.

"I know yer jus' goon' tae buy scag, and I fer one 'ave no int'rest in supportin' yer addiction."

"Don't be all fookin' holier-than-thae, yer a shitehead junkie too an' ye know it."

"I  _was_ ," Sick Boy swirled his beer around like it was an expensive chardonnay, "bu' nae I'm not. Just you and Daniel." Renton gave Begbie a sort of pitiful look, which was clearly a mistake, because Begbie point-blank  _spat_ at him. Sick Boy laughed himself silly, foolishly boosting Begbie's already over-inflated ego.

"Fer fook's sake, Begbie, tha' weren't necessary." Renton wiped his face off with his sleeve. This earned a grin from good man Francis, who took a long swig from his beer mug.

"Rent Boy. Ye really think I'm goon' give ye smack money? Idiot. Poisonin' yer body wi' tha' shite." Begbie snorted to himself. "A week a' wi'drawl woon' be any worse than bein' a scag-whore suckin' blokes fer pay."

"I don't--"

"I  _mean_ ," Sick Boy felt it necessary to interject once more, "ye prob'ly would."

"Oh, piss off. Fook ye, y'doon' know shite."

"Yeh," Spud popped in, preparing to make everything just a little bit worse, "ye' never even shagged before, Rents." Begbie seemed to find that fact hilarious. "It aren't that funny, I 'aven't either." And he laughed harder. At the very least, Spud had humiliated himself as much as he'd humiliated Renton.

"It's 'cuz yer both limp-dick junkies." Sick Boy grinned to himself.

"I need the money." Renton tried to make the situation sound as dire as possible. "Ah jus' need one hit fer the road an' then A'm off the stuff, Ah swear on me mum." Begbie laughed at him, but Sick Boy simply shook his head, taking a sip from his mug.

"'One hit' my bleedin' arsehole. You'll get back on it w'in a week."

"Fook you. Both a' youse." Renton scowled, beginning to get his things together, which was really just a sweater. "Les' get ootta 'ere, Spud, A'm goon' tae try 'n cut a deal with Swanney." Spud shook his head.

"A'm waitin' fer Tommy, mate. We goon tae see Iggy Pop together. A'm super excited, man, Ah got the shakes."

"Lucky bastard!" Renton joke-punched Spud in the shoulder, but clearly it hurt more than he intended, because Spud made a little whimpering sound like a kicked dog. "Ah shet. Sorry 'boot that. See ye tomorrae Ah guess." 

"If yer that des'prate, go sell yer arsehole oot." Begbie sneered at Renton with the utmost contempt. Renton ignored him, running out the door of the pub to avoid Sick Boy's dirty fucking laughter. He didn't want to deal with them anymore, and no doubt he could work something out with Swanney. After all, they were practically best friends. Certainly, Renton liked the man more than Begbie or Sick Boy.

* * *

 

Entering the den of Mother Superior was sort of a bittersweet experience, knowing that he was a desperate junkie piece of shit who practically lived there, but it was the only place Renton felt he knew. He liked it better than even his own home, or his parents' home. 

"'ello, Mark." Swanney was sitting at his little table, as per usual, counting dollars, surrounded by his gear. 

"Mother," Renton sounded as desperate as he felt, which he wasn't proud of. "Ah need a hit, A'm losin' my mind 'ere."

"Awroight, y'know the drill then--"

"But Ah doon' got no money." Swanney gave him a quizzical look. "There's go'a be some deal we can work, Ah can pay ye later, Ah can- A'll owe ye double, even. Please, 's my last hit 'fore Ah go off, yeh? Ah need it."

"Look. Mark. Look at me." Renton hated staring people in the eyes. "If ye doon' got no money, ye doon' got no scag."

"Fer fuck's sake, Ah always pay ye back, doon' Ah?"

"Yeh, but certain other people doon', and if Ah give ye special treatment, every'un will expect it." Swanney shook his head, and Renton honest-to-god whined, half on the verge of tears. Damn him, he didn't cry for anything else in the world, but he'd cry over not getting a fucking hit. "Doon' look so disappointed, yer makin' me feel like a bad person. Yeh can stay as long as yeh wan', though." Renton was sweating, visibly. The nightmares, the nausea, he wasn't ready to deal with that shit again. Not yet.

"A'll do anythin', honest." Swanney quirked a brow.

"Yeh shouldn't say stuff like tha', Mark."

"Ah mean it, really." Swanney seemed to be analyzing him, trying to figure out if he was serious. The man was always all perceptive and shit, loved studying behaviors and body language and all that psychology crap. Renton had never been more serious in his life, and it showed, from his sweating brow and wide-open eyes. The good Mother Superior grabbed onto Renton's tie, so their faces were stupid close. Renton could smell his breath, cigarette ash and liquor.

"Ye wann' a kiss?"

Wordlessly, Renton leaned in for it. 

Swanney tasted of whiskey, he tasted of bile and dirt. No doubt, Renton tasted far worse. Scag had sucked his libido dry, but now it was back with a vengeance, and he was pulsing in his slacks within a second or two. Desperation grabbed hold, as did Renton himself onto Swanney's dark gray wifebeater. And it ended, far too soon. "Follow me, Ah think we go' an agreement."

The promise of dope and sex had him staggering with an erection to Swanney's bedroom. Surprisingly clean, with these beautiful satin sheets and a soft duvet to bury his face in. "Sweet thing, y'ever done it wit' a man before?" Renton shook his head. He hadn't done it with  _anyone_ before. And he considered himself largely straight, so maybe having his first sexual experience with a man twice his age wasn't the way to go, but he was far too scrambled in the head to think of it. 

There was silence, only the sound of a flicking lighter for a moment. "Ah can give you yer hit nae if ye want."

"And waste it on shaggin'? Nuh. Never." Renton didn't want to sit through losing his virginity with a limp dick. He'd really rather die, in fact. Swanney nodded, and suddenly Renton was prone on the mattress, arms and legs sprawled out like a roach, as big fingers danced around the button of his pants. What had convinced him to dress so nicely today, anyway? Ah, yes, he'd accompanied Spud to an interview a day ago, and he had no intent on changing his clothes that morning. 

"Bugger, ye' know, if any of youse were gonna do this wit' me, Ah was hopin' it'd be you." That gave Renton an odd sense of pride. Perhaps just the knowledge that he was more attractive than Sick Boy to someone, anyone, was enough to ignite fires in places they hadn't existed previously. His dick stood at full mast, dripping and warm, and Swanney's calloused fingers ran across it, sliding over segments with long stupid names that Renton had never bothered to remember. Surely they came up in biology once or twice when he was younger, but that shit didn't matter anymore. He stared at the ceiling, maybe in an attempt to pretend someone else was giving him a handie, but he really couldn't.

And now he was sitting, and he heard a soft request to "kneel", and well, he'd been a good Christian when he was young. So kneel he did, right on the plush carpeted floor. Swanney had a big one, which in a weird way, Renton expected. Somehow he knew what to do, perhaps he'd been told to do it, but he opened his mouth and swallowed it halfway. It tasted of skin, but smelled of semen. It was warm, and pounding in his head, full of blood and life. "Come on, Mark." He felt sleepy, and he knew for a fact he wouldn't be able to fit the whole thing in his mouth.

However, Renton had seen a fair number of porno films in his days, and he knew the basics of giving a blowie at least. He slid upward on it, _just pretend it's a popsicle or something_ , and then back down. It hit the top of his mouth, forcing fluid from his nose, forcing his eyes back, forcing all sorts of things. A guttural groan slipped, muffled, from Renton's rosy lips. He was sweating, there was something so dirty about it all, and it felt good. Palms met the sides of his face, and suddenly Swanney was fucking into Renton's head, as if he were just a cheap, crappy sex object. Now there was really this thumping feeling behind his eyes. 

It hit in a bad way, and out of nowhere everything was convulsing. Renton's guts and throat went grr-ugh grr-ugh inside of his skin. His stomach tightened, and he tried to tap Swanney on the leg, to alert him or something, but the man clearly wasn't paying attention. He was still hard, but the rest of him didn't feel so good. And when the taste of salty precum hit his tongue, he couldn't hold it back.

All at once, his body squeezed upward like he was a tube of toothpaste. Swanney finally realized what was happening and pulled back as Renton heaved. Bile rose in his throat, rushing out like a waterfall of beer-puke. It came out of his mouth and nose and it burned, he burped out another mouthful of sick. This one had breakfast in it. He fell on his side and Swanney rubbed his back as he spat himself empty. It got in his hair and on his face.

"Too much?" Swanney's voice was soft, gentle. Renton nodded.

"Yeh, Ah think so."

"Alright, well..." The man stood, digging into his drawer as Renton lay there on the floor, dick out and face red with tears. "Ah can give yeh a little fer it." He kept it in little paper bags, like he packed Renton a sack lunch or something. Renton had trouble standing, he really felt all sorts of used up and everything. When he rose to his feet, Swanney gave him one of those enormous bear hugs. How could a man so criminal still be so gentle?

"Thanks. A'll, uh, A'll 'ave money nex' time, I swear."


	2. /anal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark Actually Loses His Virginity Finally.

Renton's slumbers felt practically overcrowded by nightmares. It was like they'd just moved out, and chosen his brain as their new home. He woke up from an awful dream, and sometimes they were recurring. This was the one about his mother and Sick Boy getting married. Where it had come from, Renton had no idea, that Freudian shit was more for Sick Boy himself to know about, and he wouldn't dare tell Sick Boy he was having nightmares at all, let alone ones like that.

Of course, he'd just gotten his hands on some scag a few days ago, so by all means he should've been okay. But no. He really should've just shot up at Swanney's place while he had the chance, but instead he left and attempted to do the deed in The Worst Toilet in Scotland. Which that on its own was already bad enough, having to sit in some other bastard's filth because nobody ever bothered to clean the damn place. But God took the challenge of making things worse and allowed a piss-drunk Francis Begbie to open the stall door, which to be fair, Renton should have locked, but he figured he wouldn't need to. There were a great many things, in fact, that Renton should have done.

Now Begbie was a horrible person in every way, shape and form, but when it came to drugs he was wholly straight-edge. He was never as kind about it as Tommy, either, he had to brag about it like it made him special. So the moment he laid his tipsy eyes on young Mark Renton with a syringe full of heroin in his sweating hand, he through an absolute fit. He slammed Renton's head into the wall, and then repeatedly on the shit-caked toilet seat, a smell wafting into Renton's face that made him nauseous, and then forced him to empty the syringe into a sink. Then, of course, Begbie dragged him out to the lads and loudly shamed him for trying to do what he did. Tommy and Spud nagged him to lay off, but Sick Boy just laughed, telling Renton to get over it and that Begbie was right and he should stop being a little bitch.

Fast forward about one and a half days, perhaps, and Renton woke up in the afternoon. The sheets were saturated, he was practically swimming in sweat and, unfortunately, urine. Thankfully the aggressive shitting part was over with, but it still felt like his whole body was intent on betraying him when he tried to get clean. Spud was even worse off, he'd destroyed more sets of bed linens than he could ever even think of paying for. Sick Boy probably felt it too, but he'd never said so.

Not only that, but he was just fucking incomprehensibly horny. It felt disgusting to jack off in what was essentially a puddle of his own piss, but he had to. When he was done with that, he dug around his room in desperation and found the fucking motherload. Apparently he'd just been stashing money at some point, and had four-hundred pounds crammed underneath his mattress. He didn't remember when he decided to do this, but he'd have to shoot his past self a big thank-you. Filled with a newfound energy, he ran out of his house, not even bothering to change his bedclothes beforehand. Maybe this wouldn't be his last hit, and he'd ought to just give up on the sobriety thing. That sounded good. 

Upon arriving at the home of Mother Superior, he found Spud had already gotten his own that morning, and was napping on the floor. He looked awfully peaceful, if Renton didn't know any better he'd pin Spud as a sweet little angel and not the absolutely fucking disastrous smackhead he actually was. Swanney waved to him.

"Mornin', lad."

Renton practically skipped over, ready to get that numbing feeling back in him. Swanney still smelled the same as he had when they last met. The same... and like a pheromone it sent all those gross endorphins down to Renton's lower half. It had to be the withdrawal, his libido was just screaming at him, every nerve below the belt went hyper-sensitive and begged for some sort of release as he approached that little workman's table.

_I want him to fuck me. I want him to._

"Can Ah 'ave a hit?"

"Pay first, hit later."

He reached into his pocket for the money.  _Just pay and this'll be over, and you can finally get the hit you need._ And yet he hesitated. Why did he hesitate? What was he waiting for? Swanney was looking at him expectantly as he pretended to feel around in his pocket for cash. His chest tightened. He could've lost his virginity to this man. He could do it right now, if he wanted. Did he want that? There wouldn't be anything wrong with it, he supposed, and oh god he was pitching a tent in his fucking sweatpants. Swanney didn't notice, either that or he just didn't mention it. How would it feel? Would it hurt? Would it be... good?

Renton withdrew his hand from his pocket.

"A'm broke."

"Naw yer not." Renton's face flushed, and Swanney laughed. Thank god Spud was out cold right then. "If ye wanny tae shag, jus' use yer bloody words, man. We can do that, buh' Ah still wan' get paid fer the scag, right?" Renton nodded, incapable of producing any sort of language. Then they walked back into Swanney's bedroom, which now had different sheets and blankets. This time the duvet was a pale yellow, as opposed to the deep red from last time. Renton began slipping out of his shirt, but was interrupted. Swanney spoke. "Y' been eatin' well?"

"Huh?... Nae."

"When the las' time ye did?"

"Yesterday morn'."

"Poor bastard. Ye wan' anythin', Ah can go ge' it."

"Well, errytime Ah eat summin' Ah sick up real bad these days."

"Aye, got it." Swanney was undoing his belt. "We shag, we get ye a hit, an' A'll let ye raid me fridge." He really was a fucking saint. Saint Swanney, it didn't sound too bad. "Nae since Spud's in me livin' room A'll 'ave to quiet ye, 'at alright?" Renton nodded. He really did seem to nod a lot, he was just a yes man. 

The belt held tight around his head, buckle sinking between his lips. Saliva dripped on its faux-golden surface, his little pink tongue fluttering below the leather. Because really, it'd be wrong to wake Spud when he's resting so peacefully on his belly, like a sleepy cat in a glimmering pool of sunlight that leaned in through one of the little windows. Swanney's wide thumb pressed on Renton's chin, tilting his gaze upwards, and the old man smiled with all those shitty teeth he had. "Lovely thing."

His shirt slid over his head finally, on God his chest felt feverish. Swanney thumbed a little at one of his nipples and it felt like a taser to his heart, he burned for the touch like nothing else. His face met chest hair, and he slobbered through the impromptu gag. Then it was in covers, pale yellow comforter, so nice and soft and inviting. He wanted to get buried inside of it and disappear forever. Gone, gone, gone, like he had never been there to begin with, and he barely registered his pants and underwear being stripped from his body. Swanney mumbled. "Ye made a real mess in these, Mark." Renton attempted an apology, but it came out as more of a needy grunt.

Rolling onto his side, Renton wiped his mouth, which was leaking drool like nothing else in the world. His ass was cold, Swanney was dripping a little oil on his hole and it was nice. His fingers were thick, only one and Renton was feeling a bit of strangeness and sickness and whole clusters of other feelings in his chest. 

If man were meant to be heterosexual, why did God put the g-spot in the asshole? This was a question Tommy had posed one time when Begbie shamed him for arranging a three-way with Lizzy and another man. He had no intent on just spit-roasting her like a piece of meat, no, he really wanted to be abused that night. And he asked, if man were meant to be heterosexual, why did God put the g-spot in the asshole? Begbie scowled and told him he was a pervert, but it drove Sick Boy into one of his philosophical rants. He paused, tapping the ash off of his cigarette and exhaling tar-vapor into the sky.

"Ye see, Tommy," he began, "if we're assuming God is real an' all that, it may very well 'ave been Adam's punishment." Tommy quirked a brow at him. "Like, 'cause he knew he canny betray 'is wife an' all, by goin' an' shaggin' wha'ever man he sees, but he's plagued by  _primal desire_."

"That seems a bit silly, Ah jus' think he were a queer." Tommy answered, and Sick Boy shook his head, 'tsk'ing like a mother.

"Nay, if God are real, iss' all jus' part of his divine plan tae further split up humanity. Pain an' pleasure."

"So are ye sayin' once there was other blokes Adam went aroond shaggin' 'em?" Spud asked.

"No, A'm sayin' the opposite, A'm sayin' he can't. 'cause he's a faithful lover an' all, an' he's strung oot between his lusts an' his faith, an' God are expectin' 'im tae make the right decision." Another breath of smoke. "Everyone misinterprets it, they think it means God hates queers or wha'ever. Which is, fer lack of a better word, simple-minded, why would 'e create somethin' 'e don't like? Nae, it was created tae test Adam alone. God dinny think 'boot the evolutionary consequences, so now we all go' one."

"This is fuckin' stupid." Tommy rolled his eyes. "Oy, Mark, wanny go get some ice cream er somethin'?"

Renton had never really made much of a deal of that memory, but it came back at this very moment. As Swanney pressed another finger past the muscled rim, Renton wondered what the real answer to that question was. Obviously it wasn't any of that shit, after all, God wasn't real. But did it have a biological purpose? Maybe for breeding reasons, the lady could cram a finger in the man's butt to make him cum faster. Surely, this was a time when fucking for fun did not exist, not when tigers and shit were running around looking to bite their necks out. The faster the sex, the better. And as man evolved and civilized, they finally felt safe enough to fuck for pleasure. Man realized that his fellow man's dick could press well on that spot in the back, and the rest was history.

Now of course, none of this really mattered, what mattered was that queers existed and g-spots existed and Renton was a queer just for now and Swanney was pressing the little cherry-red button inside of him that blasted holes in his bones. He sputtered, toes curling as his feet hung off the end of the bed. God really was a bastard, how was anyone supposed to turn this down when it felt better than anything any straight man could ever have?

"Fghhmhhgh." He tried to convey his wants, his needs. Swanney leaned down, breathing hot into his ear.

"Sorry love, Ah can't hear ye."

Those fingers hooked and pushed a violent orgasm out of Renton, his back arching and shaking and legs going rigid. Gurgled cries left his mouth, spit dripping on the pillows. He'd cum on Swanney's nice duvet, and his head felt like fish were swimming circles in his cerebral fluid. "There's a good boy." Swanney gently patted his ass, as if Renton had just won a football game and not simply had an orgasm. A kiss landed on the back of his neck and he whimpered, shockingly still hard. Even if he wasn't, he'd want Swanney to keep going, he was here to lose his virginity, not to get his ass mindlessly fucking played with.

(Which, of course, nowadays we know virginity is a construct. However, picture you're a heroin addict friends with other heroin addicts all trying to posture yourselves macho-like and being a virgin is almost as bad as being like, a pedophile. And between you all, there's only one manner of losing said virginity and becoming a real human being, and it's through penetrative sex. Of course, you'd pictured yourself doing the penetrating, but this is fine too.)

"Fghhghmgh!"

"Wha're yeh complainin' aboot?" Swanney laughed. "Naw, A'm jus' jokin'. I'll give ye wha' ye want." No snap of a rubber -- after all, Renton couldn't get pregnant and Swanney at least said he was disease-free. More than that, Renton starved for the feeling of heat, the fluid, he almost wished he had a pussy and the works so he could know how good it was to have cum pressed up in there. _What's the matter with you?_ That's not a normal thought for a man to have, but it was awfully inviting. Maybe God was real and luring people around with wild fantasy, and in that case, Renton was perfectly comfortable going to Hell. Heaven forbid he end up trapped with a bunch of gay men in search of warm bodies.

Was he gay? No.

Could he understand why others were? Yes, yes, one hundred times yes.

He couldn't do heroin forever. He knew that. Was sex an injection of its own sort? He'd heard it be called one before. Could one get addicted to sex the same way they did heroin? It'd be foolish of him to believe he could fill the hole of his drug use by getting assfucked constantly. He was greedy. He wanted both.

If his fingers were twigs, Swanney's cock was the whole fucking tree. It bore down heavy, making a crude smacking noise on Renton's ass-flesh as it landed, and Renton could nearly feel himself pissing pre onto the nice, clean bed. All he could do was make muffled gurgles and grunts as he was bored through, a dead pig on a spit ready to be cooked and eaten. Scraping him empty, coring him out, piercing through him, a la Moby Dick. His skin prickled. He could feel how close they were now. Swanney had wholly sheathed his sword.

Renton got a pat on the back, presumably for taking it all with no problems. And it fit. He let out a contented sound:

"Mmmmh..."

He felt liquid on the inside, full of oil and cake batter and everything else wet and sticky, pouring around the phallic mold inside, taking its shape. His spine was rubbed with gentle fingers, shoulders traced over and over, the rounded triangle of each bone making itself known.

"Ye look underweight, love." Swanney flattened both of his hands, monstrously large, and gripped onto each side of Renton's waist. Never before had he felt so skinny. He could fucking model women's swimsuits. "Nae the real fun starts." This was, presumably, the part of sex everyone could recognize. The humping, the pistoning. Anthony Burgess had given it the nickname of "the old in-out" within the pages of  _A Clockwork Orange_ , which was an accurate, albeit very literal, description. When you get right down to it, there's an in and there's an out. Two steps. Easy. Renton could feel every inch of flesh upon flesh as the slow outward motion came around. 

The penis was shaped like a shovel. Perhaps the flared shape of the head was meant to scrape out other people's sperm, so the woman would only carry on your genes. Of course, Renton had no idea how fast the process of impregnating someone really was. How long does it take for the human sperm to reach the ovum? How far is the distance? Can it be stopped by merely clearing out everything that was left behind?

What a wonderful design. It touches all the right things.

Swanney was a gentle old bugger. A real softie, deep down in his stinking, drug-filled heart. The push back in was soft. Renton's lower body involuntarily jumped up against it, prompting the good Mother Superior to press a hand to the small of his back. "Stay daen, love." Renton had no way of conveying that he wanted to be hit as hard as possible, to feel the inward thrust all the way in his throat, there was no way of saying so. He could only growl muffled sounds into a mouthful of leather. Real, genuine leather. It tasted real, smelled real.

There was this press of sensation deep below. (Why did God put the prostate in the ass?) Every breath from his nose was hot as he was cored, deeper and deeper, dribbling everywhere and looking an absolute mess. It was just a soft brush inside him, a gentle press, but it made his drug-withdrawn brain go haywire.

"A'm goon'a go faster." Swanney's whispers were soft wind on Renton's ear. "Yeh ready?"

"Mm-hm."

Swanney kissed his ear, grabbing the meat of Renton's hip. What little meat was there, anyway. And suddenly, the punch.

One flick, and fire is lit at the end of a lighter. One flick, explosions go off. One quick jab sends teeth out of the mouth of Muhammad Ali. A single motion is in a wrecking ball hitting a building, shattering through glass and brick. One press shoots the bullet from a gun. The one last push before your head slides out, and you're born. A finger pushes down on the plunger of the syringe, injecting brown-orange syrup into a bursting, blue vein. 

It forced fluid from his nose, eyes bubbling salt water involuntarily. Skin prickled, toes curled, g-spot hit like a slug to the head, nerves crying out and gritting their teeth. He could feel a chest on his back, he was being hunched over. So close that their heartbeats could become one in the same. So close that their arteries could tangle together and create a new body altogether. And then the rhythm, the vibrating in your chest when the speakers at the concert are booming. So much that if you lift a foot, you can feel the tremors of the sound in your leg. That was how it felt, a constant drum-beat that made warmth emanate from his insides. 

A pounding, a mortar-and-pestle, crushed herbs in the bowl, Renton could feel every cell that touched him. A booming, pressing heat. Swanney thrusted in and out of him now, with reckless abandon, and Renton felt himself to be an object in that very moment. Well-loved, oh, he was such a well-loved thing, but a thing nonetheless. Like a years-old chair. A children's toy that had been treasured so very, very much. That was the word. Mark Renton felt treasured.

Bang. Bang. Bang. The little button in him just kept getting these harsh love-taps. The room was silent, other than grunts, and the sound of skin on skin. The flesh of his ass was beginning to sting a little with the way they smacked together, balls tender yet tight, a smattering of red permeated his body. Swanney's spit dripped over Renton's back. It was cold.

Electricity. White. Heaven. Fire. Paradise. 

Renton came again, the curve of his back like a crescent moon. 

He was running out of steam. If anything, at that point, his body was feeling a little too well-loved. He was hot and ultra-sensitive. It was beginning to hurt. Little raindrop tears fell through his pale lashes, he was little more than a defiled prostitute. Swanney was sucking little bruises up through the skin on his neck. They shined with saliva, purple-red and moist. Renton's vision was blurring, his fingers knotted in the duvet. He felt a good-bad sort of sick. 

"A'm goon'a shoot inside yeh." Swanney's voice was low, gruff. Practically a growl.

Renton wanted to beg for it, with his teary-spitty face, but he could only choke and sputter in reply. "There's a good'un." Swanney's jagged nails dug deep into Renton's sides, blood trickling around their edges. Renton was a limp sack of potatoes. His breath was only gasps and heaves, he was worn, he was torn, he was all used up and empty.

Well, no, he had one more in him.

Warmth. All-encompassing, filling, dripping. Cake batter. Whipped cream. It felt like nothing he'd experienced before, it burned him through and through. Cum. Pure human seed. Riding out the remainder of his orgasm, Swanney pushed it deep in him. Renton feared it'd come out of his mouth. Renton feared he'd find it in the toilet tomorrow morning. Renton feared it'd drip out of him while he slept, into his already pissed-in and jizzed-on bedsheets. 

He came again, for a third time. It was a sad, unsatisfying little spit. When Swanney pulled out, Renton could feel the dribble along his perineum. The leather was removed from his mouth, and he wanted to say something, but no words would come to him. "Was it good for yeh?"

"...Aye."

"Alright, roll over."

Renton did as told. His stomach felt weighted. Swanney was tightening a band around his arm and oh, yeah, he was getting a hit. The needle pushed through, and the heroin danced right to his heart. A sickly smile curled over his lips. Swanney ruffled his hair, well, not really, there was little hair to ruffle, but the action was there.

"A'm fookin' tired."

He was lifted to the head of the bed, buried inside of the thick yellow comforter. A pillow rested beneath his skull, his brain felt too heavy for words. Renton was completely prepared to sleep like a baby, no, even better than. 

"Get a good rest."

The high was crawling in. Finally, Renton could sleep.


End file.
